


A Bird, A House, A Stone

by Garlandriel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garlandriel/pseuds/Garlandriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petunia and Harry mend their relationship post books</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bird, A House, A Stone

The first and only time Petunia hit Harry he was two.

He's forever whimpering instead of crying like a healthy baby. She felt a nasty surge every time his little sticky hands wrapped around her fingers. It’s not unlike the feeling she had towards Lily’s other boy. The mean one with the greasy hair. If Petunia were to describe it – she’d say the two hates have similar textures.

In those early years she spent a lot of nights awake, face-cream on and Vernon snoring next to her, palming this poisonous hate. How could everything she adored about Dudley –his gummy kiss, his jam covered little hands, his healthy love of screaming - be the same things she despised in her nephew? Vernon’s dislike for the boy was but a pale imitation of her own. On the point of Harry, he became very like his ghastly sister.

In the later years it sneaks up on her occasionally. Her one … incident. There had been a mean satisfaction when she caught Harry square on his fat little baby belly, after the boy had once again begun to hover of his own accord during his nappy change.

He'd looked at her, green eyes very wide and just beginning to understand, and Petunia was reminded of Lily on the platform, the last day they had been something resembling sisters. Harry’s stomach had reddened and he let out the first healthy wail of his life. It satisfied something deep within Petunia’s gut.

After that she let Vernon dole out the physical punishments. Better not to risk it.

All the same, she began to have the nasty intuition that he understood that, though Vernon and Dudley were the rod, she was the force behind their blows. They were the limbs but she was the heart.

It didn’t make her as happy as she thought it would. He looked at her sometimes, unnaturally quiet for a child, with such nasty _suspicion_. But occasionally he still reached for her hand, and in those moments Petunia felt, more than fully perceived, a _guilt_ , black and monstrous, shifting at the edge of her vision. She soothed herself with how good it felt to hit him, and how she's refrained from it since. Guilt is not for people who've held back.

By the time he leaves for that godforsaken school his hate for her matches her own.

It is a marvelous gift to feel so justified.

 

-

 

Diddykins and her have wonderful afternoons deciding what presents to send Harry each Christmas.

It becomes something of a family tradition, Petunia and her son ( _so strong now, so gifted_ ), taping toothpicks and fifty pence pieces to notepaper. But come Christmas morning, even though her second soufflé has risen without a hitch, and her husband and son amuse themselves with their hauls, pink-cheeked and laughing, Petunia notices the absence Harry’s small frame between them. _If only to have someone to feed the botched soufflé to,_ she tells herself sternly.

The last holidays Harry comes home he’s changed. Petunia tries to put her finger on it all that gloomy summer. He’s still skinny for his age, but he seems to fill the room now. Most of all it’s his eyes. Over the space of one year they seem to have gotten old. 

One of the lunatics in her kitchen, the one who later drives them away from their home of the last twenty years, mentions he’s got his mother’s eyes – but that’s not true. Harry has Petunia’s father’s eyes, and for the first time in years she sees Harold Evans, dead of cancer before she could beg Lily to let some of her lot save him, frowning in her nephew’s eyes. 

She wants to say as much to Harry, but the nasty guilt that’s crept into most of her quiet moments since Dumbledore’s letter chokes her. Her white handprint on his small toddler torso blooms in front of her eyes. She flees.

 

-

 

When Dudley mentions he’s been around at Harry’s for tea, Petunia almost drops her granddaughter.

Marigold is a decidedly un-Dursleyish child, so rather than irritating her the momentary jolt just amuses her, and she giggles and waves her fat brown arms, the gold bangles on them catching the sun. Petunia presses a quick kiss to her hair.

“How is he?” She manages after an awkward moment.

“Alright,” Dudely says, not meeting her eyes. “He’s married. Got two kids and another one on the way.” 

Petunia closes her eyes. She pinches the bridge of her nose, keeping her arm hooked around Marigold. Outside there’s the splash of water and she hears muffled laughter. Dudley’s wife Leela and her older grandchild, Poppy, are still in the pool.

They had to pick Harry up early from the school pool once. He'd been a shivering huddled mess. He'd whimpered something about _older kids_ and _holding me under_ and she hadn't wanted to hear it, hadn't wanted to unlock the car door, so repulsed by the neediness in his tone-

Petunia pinches her thumbs harder until bright shapes bloom behind her eyelids. She nods and tries to smile. She suspects it looks more like a grimace.

“He heard about Dad - he wants to see you.” Dudley says after another moment. Petunia opens her eyes “Said it’s fine if you don’t want to –” 

“I want to.” Petunia says. Dudley eyes her warily.

“Alright. I’ll pass your number on.”

Petunia kisses the top of Marigolds soft curls. Dudley is staring at his tea. Something in her stomach unknots just slightly.

 

-

 

Harry and her relearn each other in stuttering leaps. His wife, Ginerva, doesn’t like Petunia, but Poppy and Marigold have a way of winning even the staunchest critic over. 

Harry’s youngest, Al, is a particular favorite with her granddaughters, and Petunia slowly creeps into the Potter’s good graces. It's embarrassing, the way that Harry’s old childhood friends look at her when they first meet her, like she’s some mythological monster come to life. She feels her Dursley pride rear and strain every time a pointed question is directed at her. But she digs her nails into her palms and does her best to atone.

It will never be enough. Lily would still never forgive her. She feels that somewhere deeper than her heart. But it's something. It's the best she can salvage.

 -

 

It’s late the following spring when an nine-year-old Poppy makes Petunia’s garden flamingos dance and take flight. And Petunia doesn’t hesitate before putting down her rose bulbs, and sweeping her wide-eyed granddaughter into a hug. She makes Poppy and her flamingos wait while she runs for her camera. She builds up the courage to ask Ginny to help her get the film developed magically. The photo lives in her wallet, and on the Potter's fridge. A grinning young witch, surrounded by pink metal wings.

When the letter comes, a year later, both girls are at Petunia’s house. They are still asleep in the bedroom Petunia redecorates for them every summer. Dudley and Leela are scheduled to arrive later in the morning. But she wanted this moment. She angles the parchment envelope next to Poppy’s raspberry birthday cake.

Petunia reads the spidery script one more time, something stronger than pride filling her heart.

_Miss Poppy Amala Dursley_

_The Pink Bedroom_

_16 Somner Lane_

_Cheshire_

-

 

The Dursleys and the Potters arrange to meet at King’s Cross.

In no time at all, Petunia finds herself waving goodbye to an excited Poppy, hanging out of the Hogwarts Express window, her tanned face so like Lilly’s all those years ago. Next to her Leela is still shouting last-minute instructions about doing her laundry _at least_ twice a week, and studying hard and _no duelling_ – but Petunia is transfixed by the bright shining joy in every line of her granddaughters face.

“It was hard the first time with Al too,” Harry whispers to her a little later, bumping their shoulders together. She nods. Dudley and Leela are still waving; Marigold stands between them, unusually solemn. Lily leaves Harry’s side and slips her hand into Petunia’s.

“I missed your mother terribly that first year.” Petunia is less surprised than relieved to let herself admit that all these years later. "And we sent you here, all alone- every year-"

“You’re here now,” It’s soft and for a moment Harry sounds wiser and older than his thirty-something years. She looks at him properly. He’s still watching the end of the rapidly disappearing Hogwarts Express, but a smile plays around his mouth. “That’s what counts.”

She’s about to argue, but Dudley breaks in, hefting Marigold up on his back. “I know at least one goblin who’s up for ice-cream!” Lily is off like a shot, chanting “Fortescues! Fortescues! Fortescues!” And just like that the moment is gone, and the next one begins.

Petunia doesn’t mind.

 

 


End file.
